


Requiem For Love

by SilverDoe290s



Series: Grindeldore Character Study Pieces [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore's infinite self-hatred, Angst, Everything Hurts, M/M, flashbacks and introspection, post final duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDoe290s/pseuds/SilverDoe290s
Summary: After the duel, Albus Dumbledore reflects on how he fits into the new world he has emerged into, and tries to put to rest his feelings for Gellert Grindelwald.Or: thehollynerd on tumblr wanted "a fanfiction about Albus Dumbledore immediately after his legendary duel with Gellert. Maybe after he has been forced to sentence him to life imprisonment. Lots of thoughts, lots of angst, lots of flashbacks", and I did my best to deliver.





	Requiem For Love

**Author's Note:**

> thehollynerd, this is for you. Any detrimental effects that taking the time to write this will have on my grades are on your conscience now.

Albus Dumbledore takes about two weeks to recover from the duel. He might have healed faster, but the truth is he needs the reprieve; shut away in his hospital room, time blends and blurs together, and no-one comes to ask him anything. He knows it cannot last; soon he will be the focus of every curious, prying eye. 

His mind is somehow restless and empty, all at once. It flits nervously, afraid to settle too long on any single thing. The scars the duel left him with burn and sting, and he takes comfort in the sensation. It offers him something to focus on that lies outside his head. 

His fingers trace the burns and gashes and he can almost feel the magic that left them there; both his and Gellert’s, coming together into something certain to destroy whatever lies in its path. It feels as though Gellert is etched into his skin, and he isn’t certain he wants him to fade.  

It’s the reminder he needs, he tells himself. His worst mistakes, visibly burnt into him. But it isn’t that simple, it never has been. He’s spent so long wishing to wash himself clean of Gellert and now, when he has the choice to never think of him or see him again, he finds his fingers digging into every mark he can find of him until he hisses in pain and curls in on himself, mind emptying again. 

He dreads the day when he has to emerge into the world again because in truth, he has never seen past this moment. The duel should have been both their downfall, the culmination of their mutual spiral of destruction. And yet, he is still there, and sooner or later he will have to find a way to live again. 

 

 _Smoke clings to his clothes; ash stings at his eyes. Flames leap around them, hungrily closing in. The sweltering heat drains the last reserves of Albus’ energy. It takes all the power he has left to control the fire._  

 _Gellert, standing across from him in the ever-smaller circle that is free of flames, does not look much better. His clothes are torn and slashed, patches stained with blood. He stumbles slightly as he steps forward but holds his head high. The reflections of flames dance wildly in his eyes. The Elder Wand dangles in his hand._  

 _“Surrender,” Albus says in a voice that is quiet, but carries, “or we both die.”_  

 _He cannot_ _win_ _against the Elder Wand, but it is perfectly possible that they both lose. More than possible; it has been inevitable, in a way, since the day their paths had parted._  

 _As if on cue, the fire roars, and a spark leaps to the hem of Albus’ robes._  

 _“Is this what you want?” Gellert hisses. “You would rather see us both destroyed than let me forge our way to freedom for all of wizardkind?”_  

 _Albus closes his eyes. A stray tear slips down his cheek, though whether it is from the ash in his eyes or from emotion, he cannot tell. He wishes Gellert wouldn’t throw words at him; he’s tired of parrying against them._  

 _“We deserve this.” Briefly, he blinks his eyes open, only to squeeze them shut again as he sees Gellert take long strides towards him. “We destroy those around us, we...”_  

 _His robes have caught fire properly, now. His leg flares with scorching, blinding pain, but it feels distant. Albus sucks in a deep breath and feels himself relax. It is a fitting end for them; both consumed by the destruction they had birthed together. Their high-minded little games need not spill over and hurt anyone else, ever again._  

 _He feels Gellert’s presence and, for the last time, lets himself embrace it. It feels safe, reassuring. Albus lets a small, sad smile grace his lips._  

 _“Damn you.” The words sound like they are torn from Gellert against his will, and the noise that follows could just as easily be a chuckle or a sob. “_ Damn _you, Albus.” Rough fingers brush Albus’ cheek._  

 _They are both damned, if he is to be honest with himself, but it is strangely gratifying that he can still pull some emotion free from Gellert, whatever it may be. It is a reminder that whatever they represent in the public eye, here, surrounded by flames and facing their demise, they need not be angel or demon, paragon of virtue or terror of the world; they can be simply, beautifully human._  

 _“_ Look _at me.” Gellert’s voice is a command that broaches no argument, and Albus’ eyes flutter open just in time for Gellert’s lips to brush his._  

 _The touch is soft, gentle. It is all Albus can feel. Gellert looks strangely, eerily beautiful; embers burning in his eyes, hair tossed about by the wind, robes the colour of the smoke that chokes them. Albus deepens the kiss, hand reaching up rest against the back of Gellert’s neck._  

 _Gellert’s skin has always been surprisingly warm. It looks like it should feel like ice or porcelain, but instead Albus feels the liquid fire raging through his veins just beneath it. His hand is tangled in Albus’ hair._  

 _Even broken, Gellert is still magnificent. The world seems to warp around him. There is something unreachable in his eyes, that thing Albus has been seeking since the moment they met and still not quite pinned down. He knows now that it will always elude him, but he desperately wants to know it nonetheless; wants to be as certain as he had once been of how it feels to be Gellert Grindelwald, all wildness and freedom, power and passion._  

 _Something stirs and then swells in Albus’ heart, washing away all the rest – the guilt, the shame, the fear, the anger._ _For the first time since that summer long ago, Albus lets himself love without apology._  

 _Soon, he thinks through the haze of pain, it will not matter anyway._  

 _It is in this moment that Gellert pulls away and the feeling dies down, leaving Albus hollow. The pain rushes back in full force. Albus’ vision blurs and he is certain he will collapse soon._  

 _He watches with a strange kind of numbness as Gellert drops to his knees and presses the Elder Wand into Albus’ hand. “End this,” he commands. “I surrender.”_  

 _Albus looks down in shock. He’d offered the choice, but he’d never dreamt Gellert would take it. Gellert is a strange combination of vulnerable and impenetrable kneeling before Albus; his eyes are defiant but Albus thinks – perhaps imagines, perhaps hopes – he sees a spark of something gentler in them. He wants to kneel at Gellert’s side and coax it to the surface, praying it is strong enough to heal all that has passed between them. He wants to hold Gellert until they are both whole again._  

 _He will not. He will not, he will not, he will not. If it were only them – but it is not, there is an entire world beyond them and he owes it to them not to._  

 _With all that is left of his magic, Albus slashes his wand through the air. The flames freeze, then simmer and die down. The left half of his robes is burnt away to his knee, his skin blistered and singed. He and Gellert watch each other in silence._  

 _Albus wants to ask_ why _, but he knows there will be no answer. A soft chuckle builds up in Gellert’s chest, gathers momentum as it escapes him until his entire body rocks with silent laughter at some private joke Albus knows he will never be let in on._  

 

Returning to Hogwarts is at once easier and far more difficult than he’d anticipated. On the surface, nothing has changed. Lessons proceed as they always have. It’s easy to lose himself into the flurry of students and work; he has a lot to catch up on, despite the other teachers’ ignored insistence that he should take his time with it. It’s a familiar sort of chaos. 

But he feels the eyes on him always, sees the stolen glances and hears the awed whispers behind his back. They burrow under his skin; he wants nothing more than to escape.  

Albus has always prided himself in his accomplishments, where it is earned. He knows, though, that he has not earned this. Gellert has always been his responsibility; Albus only did what he could to undo his own mistakes. Even if they parted before Gellert began his revolution - even if Albus would _never_ have condoned the kind of brutality Gellert showed – Albus had given a part of himself to Gellert irretrievably. If they knew how complicit he was, they would not revere him like this.  

Albus tries to picture the horror with which they would regard him, then. He flinches from it. It is an unshakeable truth, that he cannot face letting down the people around him. It’s the reason he’s avoided his brother for so long. 

Perhaps some would feel sympathy that Gellert Grindelwald had manipulated and discarded him, but if they knew that he still found something breath-taking in the way Gellert had bent the world to his will without hesitation – if they knew how his heart had ached seeing Gellert beaten and in pain – if they knew how hard he had to fight himself to bring himself to raise a hand to him – if they knew how Gellert’s presence sent shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with terror –  

He knows he should hate Gellert, but Albus Dumbledore has never managed to learn how to truly hate. In a better world, he would not have to catalogue that to his long list of flaws, but he supposes it is typical of him. He loves all the wrong things, and cannot even hate the right ones. 

 

“To successfully transform something,” Albus tells his students, “you first learn how to look at it.” 

 _Gellert Grindelwald’s movements had fascinated him since the first time Albus laid eyes on him. It was the small things; the way his tongue flicked out to lick his lower lip when he had a thought he wished to share, the way he perched on the edge of his chair as though prepared to leap from it at any instant yet somehow also kept himself perfectly still; the way he_ did _fly across the room to grab a book from a shelf when he could not contain his excitement. It was a symphony of stillness and motion with no compromise; one could not help but be swept up in it._  

 _It had taken him longer to decipher what each movement meant, but once he found a_ _meaning,_ _he treasured it, stored it in his dictionary of everything that made up Gellert._  

“From far away contours are rigid and clearly defined, but if you look closely enough, they begin to blur together and disappear.”  

 _Albus knows, in broad generalities, that Gellert has crossed far too many lines to ever be forgiven, the kind of lines that change a person and crush whatever had once been human in them._  

 _He knows, too, that when he looks at Gellert he cannot see a monster, however hard he tries. He knows too many of his nuances – an entire book of them shelved in his mind._  

 _Perhaps, from up close, there are no monsters, only people, some of whom one happens to love._  

 _Somehow that seems far worse, because when he pulls away again the lines click back into place like the_ _wards_ _he’s placed on Gellert’s cell. Reality slams down around him and he will never quite know which version is real and which is illusion. He knows only which_ feels _real, and that it is not the one the world sees._  

"From there, they can be reshaped into anything you please.” 

 _In time, the version that the world sees will solidify, with only Albus’ memory to contradict it – a contradiction he will never share, for fear of what it makes him._  

 

The students’ restlessness has calmed and they are watching him attentively, with something bordering on concern. Albus realizes he hasn’t spoken in minutes. He clears his throat. Looks down at his lecture notes, looks back up at the class, and forces himself to continue mechanically through the knot in his throat. 

When the time is up and class is dismissed, one of the braver students hangs behind to ask what Albus knows they have all been dying to since he returned to teaching. 

“Professor Dumbledore?” Her voice is eager; she is one of the ones who hasn’t been able to sit still for the entirety of the lesson. “Will you tell us about the duel?” 

Albus swallows. “I don’t believe that’s on the curriculum, Isabella,” he manages to say lightly. Isabella looks crestfallen. He understands exactly what she’s thinking; at her age, he too would be disappointed to know that a professor who just made history is standing before them and won’t share the knowledge only he has with them. But that was when he still thought history was a simple enough thing; he knows, now, that you can never guess how much has been left unsaid; how much murkier the truth always is.  

After the few minutes it takes her to realize no further answer is forthcoming, Isabella leaves the room, and Albus is left alone. 

Albus leans against his desk and runs a hand over his face. Even the simple, routine tasks are strained now. He is a stranger in this world and does not know how to slip back into normalcy when everything aches and feels unreal, and his thoughts are always miles away. 

 

 _His dreams take him back to Nurmengard. It is quiet and still inside the castle; the other_ _aurors_ _have left him alone to erect the wards, not wanting to come to close to Grindelwald even now than he has been subdued._  

 _The silence is stifling. Albus watches the figure standing behind bars as if carved from stone and once again doubt sweeps in and overtakes him. He remembers the kiss before the duel ended, when Albus had fully believed they would both die. It had felt so simple then, but now confusion clouds Albus’ thoughts. He wishes he could tell what had passed through Gellert’s mind when he’d done it. Had he simply wanted to toy with Albus again, to feel the satisfaction of seeing once more how vulnerable Albus was to his illusions, how_ easily _he believed what he wanted to believe?_  

 _Anger wells up in Albus. He wants to grab Gellert by the shoulders and shake the answers loose from him. He_ must _know why Gellert insists on pulling on those fraying threads of love that hang so obviously from his heart when there is nothing left for him to gain from it. Whatever he does now, Albus will not release him, because it is not his choice to make._  

 _A part of him – the part that is wild and weary and desperate – wonders what would happen if he simply stays here, seals himself in this castle with Gellert. Locked away from the world, where it cannot ask any more of him._  

 _In his dreams, he does. In his dreams, Gellert presses him against the cold stone walls and kisses him again until the shard of ice lodged in his chest melts and they are moving as one._  

 _“I love you,” he breathes into_ _Gellert’s_ _neck._  

 _Gellert doesn’t answer. He never speaks, in Albus’ dreams; he is a presence only, a touch, warm and cold all at once._  

 _“I’m sorry,” he says, but the words vanish like smoke as they meet air. Albus isn’t sure what he’s sorry for, exactly. For leaving him here? For choosing the world over him? For loving him still, despite it?_  

 _Or is he only sorry that the world they once dreamt together had crumbled and they were left with this one that did not bend around them, that only demanded and gave nothing back?_  

 _He wakes with tears on his cheeks and the taste of Gellert on his lips, and he stares up at the ceiling and waits for it to pass._  

 

They offer him the Order of Merlin a month after the duel. The room is stuffy and crowded and he stands through the ceremony, listens to scripted words fall from insincere lips. 

Disgust crowds his heart. They haven’t learned anything, nor will they ever. They imagine they can keep him on a leash by lavishing him with praise when he fights their battles for them, as though that will make him forget how they hounded him before.  

Someone is talking to him. Enthusiastically laying out their political plans to him, looking up every few minutes to search for approval. He isn’t quite listening, but he can tell the words are hollow. It is all hollow, and they are all complacent, relying on him to defend their status quo so they need never truly be challenged. Grindelwald’s brutality allows them to ignore and dismiss any need for true change on their side. Albus may have been young and arrogant – he may have placed his blame in all the wrong places, on the muggles rather than the wizards who clung to the past and feared change – but beneath it all, he’d had _reason_ to be angry at the state of things.  

They will continue to rule just as they did before the war, insular and rigid and closeminded, because they are selfish and self-absorbed and cannot fathom looking beyond themselves to see how the way the Wizarding World is built is flawed, and cannot hold. To take the war Albus has just ended as a warning that they need to find a better way. 

Champagne glasses clink and Albus thinks of how much he has paid for those two months of folly. Of the years spent not trusting his mind, not trusting his heart, not trusting any part of himself, not wanting to inhabit his own skin. Wishing he had died in Ariana’s place. The time spent building himself back up afterwards, trying to find some spark of goodness in himself he could believe in. 

It’s nothing compared to what the innocents caught in Gellert’s war had suffered, but it is so much more than these simpering, suited men who suddenly want his political favour will ever understand. 

Is _this_ what he fought to protect? Is this what he has torn himself to shreds defending? 

He looks the man who is speaking to him straight in the eye. “Fascinating,” he says with a light cordial smile, and the man tilts his head in confusion. “Truly fascinating,” Albus continues, “how you can use so many words to say so little.” The words come out clipped and in the moment of outraged silence that follows he turns and walks away, rage still boiling in his stomach. 

It frightens him, how well he understands Gellert’s anger. The bitter and resentful ghost of his eighteen-year-old self that lingers in his heart sometimes wants to tear it all down just to show them they _do not own him_.  

He pushes the anger down viciously. Reminds himself what happened the last time he’d let it rule him. At the same time, it tastes bitter to know he must. He has been catastrophically wrong in the past, but he has been _right_ as well and he wonders how long it will be until he can trust in that again. 

He wonders what Gellert would say if he were here. No doubt he would stoke the flames of Albus’ anger; he has always enjoyed drawing reactions from Albus, all the more so the more impassioned those reactions were.  

 

 _They are lying in the grass behind Gellert’s house, looking up at the stars. Gellert’s eyes take on a strange silver light under the scattered constellations. Albus feels the world stretch out above him._  

 _“How can they be so blind?” he asks, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “Magic is a gift. Can they not_ see _how selfish it is to hold it close to our chests when we could share it with the world instead? Can’t they see that secrecy only widens this divide of fear and hatred between us? If they_ allowed _us to lead the muggles down the right path -” Albus breaks off suddenly, distracted by the small smile that plays on Gellert’s lips. “- What?”_  

 _“Anger suits you, love.”_  

 

The anger fades, and Albus is left feeling only cold inside. His fingers twitch against his wand; he wants to apparate to Nurmengard right then and there, to find a way to draw that smile from Gellert again; the one that makes him feel stripped bare, as though Gellert has peered deep into his core and is enthralled by what he sees there. 

But Gellert wouldn’t smile at him now, or ever again, and Albus shouldn’t want him to. 

 

“And so the hero returns,” Aberforth says sardonically as Albus walks into the Hog’s Head. Albus says nothing, just breathes out a sigh and slides into a chair. 

The ever-present tension between him and Aberforth has not faded in the slightest with time, but at the very least, Aberforth knows everything, and Albus is so very tired of pretending to be someone he is not. 

His brother places a glass of firewhisky before him and Albus drinks gratefully. His throat is parched. The liquid burns on its way down. “You know I do not want their praise,” Albus says quietly.  

Aberforth scoffs. “Don’t you? Then why don’t you tell them everything? See if they praise you still.” 

Albus takes another sip of his drink and says nothing. There are plentiful reasons not to share everything, but chief among them, he knows, is shame. Aberforth is not entirely wrong. He may not want their praise, but he is not prepared for the way they would look at him if they knew the truth.  

“Don’t delude yourself, Albus,” Aberforth continues. “I know you. You thrive on praise; you cannot bear not being a paragon to everyone around you. It’s always about that; you would rather twist yourself in knots than accept that you cannot be perfect and move from there.” 

 

 _“Why do you always have to make everything about yourself?”_ _Aberforth_ _asks one night, after a long day of on-and-off arguments they tried to stifle so as not to agitate Ariana._  

 _Albus raises his eyes. They are tired and bruised; he has been up too long, for too many days in a row, and he is not in the mood for another fruitless back-and-forth with his brother._ _Aberforth_ _is frustrated and still grieving their mother and taking it all out on Albus; that is all there is to it. Neither of them will gain anything from this conversation._  

 _“What do you mean,” Albus says dully._  

 _“I_ mean,” _Aberforth_ _spits, “That if you hate staying here so much, you might as well not do so. I_ offered _to drop out and take care of her in your stead, but your pride couldn’t have that, could it? It’s not about_ _us._ _It’s that you can never_ admit _your failure. I am so_ sick _of watching you play the tortured martyr.”_  

 

“Why must you always be so cruel to me?” Albus asks quietly. Aberforth puts his own drink down; for a moment, there is silence between them. When Aberforth speaks again, his voice is more measured than it’s been in as long as Albus can remember when speaking to him.  

“I don’t _want_ to be cruel,” he says. “I know you’re hurting and – whether you believe me or not – I don’t enjoy it. I simply don’t know how else to make you _see,_ because you don’t listen to people, not really. You always think you know better. You are so goddamn arrogant, you believe _everything_ hinges on you. And yes – very well – I _have_ honestly want to hurt you at times. I’ve been _angry,_ because your arrogance cost us our sister. I’m _still_ angry. But mostly, I want to see you stop hurting _yourself_ because you cannot realise that sometimes, _it isn’t about you._ ”  

Tears glitter in Albus’ eyes and Aberforth clears his throat awkwardly.  

“Another drink?” he offers after a short silence. Albus nods.  

The rest of the night is spent in the most companionable silence Albus remembers them ever having. Under other circumstances, it might almost be enjoyable. 

 

Aberforth’s words stick with Albus, burrowing ever deeper with time, and he cannot shake them. The anger is still simmering in him, so he turns it inwards, where it cannot hurt anyone who does not deserve it. There’s a strange satisfaction in tearing into himself; _himself,_ he can hate freely. 

He’s never _wanted_ to be the one to fight Gellert. He doesn’t enjoy his role as savior of the Wizarding World, as much as he might once have thought he would revel in it, had it come about under different circumstances. 

But he hadn’t fought _only_ for the world’s sake, either. He’d wanted – _needed –_ a way to clear his past so he could live with himself, and he would never have that until he could confront Gellert. 

The thought tears at him. To hurt Gellert for the sake of the world – that is one thing. It is something he can accept the necessity of, however much it hurts. But to do so because he cannot bear being in the wrong, cannot stand the blame he heaps on himself? 

No, he _cannot_ be that selfish. He did it because it had to be done, and he was the only one who could. Everyone else believes so; why shouldn’t _he_? 

Albus stares out the window at the deep, dark forest that surrounds the castle. They are beautiful, but where that beauty would soothe him on another night, this time it only brings about a dull ache in his chest. There is _so much_ beauty in the world, but it all feels out of reach to him. 

Half of his heart belongs to the world; the other half is locked up somewhere across the sea. None of it has ever truly been his. 

Is love supposed to be this razor-edged balancing game? Albus is quite certain it is not. But that is the pitfall of genius, he supposes; just as he grasps complex concepts with ease, he struggles with those that should be simplest. 

 

He receives an invitation to Newt’s wedding with Porpentina Goldstein at the end of the month. Newt seems almost apologetic handing it to him, repeating emphatically that it is just a formality, really, and Albus shouldn’t feel obliged to go if it’s a bother. Albus wonders with mild amusement whether Newt gave the same speech to everyone he invited in person; it is so very much like him to feel the need to _apologise_ for inviting someone to a party. Albus smiles and promises to be there. 

When the day comes, though, he finds himself dreading it. He sits through the speeches and the vows with a steadily growing pit in his stomach. Tina glows with a timid sort of happiness, sneaking glances at Newt as if she’s not quite certain she’s allowed to. 

Albus makes his way outside at his first opportunity to do so. He’ll go back later, but at the moment he cannot stand to be there any longer. 

The night air is cool and sweet. Albus takes in a deep, shuddering breath. He feels hollow, and the mass of people crowded inside only makes matters worse. He needs to escape, just for a moment, to clear his head.  

Newt finds him before he can turn back. The boy clears his throat slightly to get Albus’ attention.  

Albus turns, forcing a warm smile. “Wonderful night, isn’t it?” The sky is completely clear, showing scattered constellations above them. Newt hums his agreement. “I’ll be back inside quite soon; I just needed some air.” 

“I don’t much like crowds, either,” Newt says, shifting his feet. “Didn’t really want to throw a big party, but, well, my family wanted it and so...” 

He trails off and Albus nods sympathetically. “It’s not very enjoyable to feel that your emotions belong to someone else, is it?” 

Newt shrugs. “Tina and I will celebrate together later. For now I just have to... put up with it, and avoid everyone but the people I actually wanted here.” He doesn’t look quite comfortable with the thought, but neither man says any more for a while. A breeze flutters around them and a deep loneliness comes over Albus suddenly. 

“Are you alright, professor?” Newt asks softly. His hand hovers uncertainly near Albus’ arm. Albus isn’t quite sure when he got so close. 

“Certainly. Beautiful, clear skies and several servings of cake; what more could I ask for?” 

Newt looks like he is about to say something more when Tina comes running out of the tent, stepping awkwardly in an attempt not to let her dress trail through mud. Albus is incredibly grateful for her presence; if Newt had pressed any further, he’s not certain he could have kept himself from breaking down before him. 

Newt turns to Tina, and his eyes light up like he is seeing the entire world in her. 

Albus’ heart clenches. The happiness in their eyes is something pure and uncomplicated in a way he has never quite learned to enjoy. It is the kind that can take root and flourish in this world; the kind that deserves to. 

And if he himself can never have that, well, he can dedicate himself to making sure the world _remains_ a place where others can. He will never truly be the hero they have cast him as, but if that is the role he is meant to play then he can aspire to fill it.  

He seizes hold of all pain and bitterness; more painfully, of the longing, the snapshots of memories; the feeling that had seized his heart when Gellert kissed him on the battlefield, when he thought they would both die and it didn’t have to matter; and he pushes it down into the deepest recesses of himself. He breathes in and out again, lets himself feel the emptiness that takes hold of his chest. 

He can love the world from far away, with the half of his heart that is still left to him. It will have to be enough. 


End file.
